As might be expected, Miss Hunter’s and Miss Toombs’ disparagement of Charlie Perigal but served to incline Mavis in his favour.  She thought of him all the way home, and wondered how soon she would see him again.  When she opened the door of her room, an overpowering scent of violets assailed her nostrils; she found it came from a square cardboard box which lay upon the table, having come by post addressed to her.  The box was full of violets, upon the top of which was a card.

She snatched this up, to see if it would tell her who had sent the flowers.  It merely read, “With love to Jill.”

Her heart glowed with happiness to think that a man had gone to the trouble and expense of sending her violets.  Before sitting down to her meal, she picked out a few of the finest to pin them in her frock; the others she placed in water in different parts of the room.  If Mavis were inclined to forget Perigal, which she was not, the scent of the violets was enough to keep him in her mind until they withered.

She did not write to acknowledge the gift; she reserved her thanks till their next meeting, which she believed would not long be delayed.  The following Saturday (she had seen nothing of Perigal in the meantime) she called on Mrs. Trivett at Pennington Farm.  The farmyard, with its poultry, the old-world garden in which the house was situated, the discordant shrieks which the geese raised at her coming, took the girl’s fancy.  While waiting for the door to be opened, she was much amused at the inquisitive way in which the geese craned their heads through the palings in order to satisfy their curiosity.

The door was opened by a homely, elderly woman, who dropped a curtsey directly when she saw Mavis, who explained who she was.

“You’re kindly welcome, miss, if you’ll kindly walk inside.  Trivett will be in soon.”

Mavis followed the woman to the parlour, where her hostess dusted the chair before she was allowed to sit.

“Do please sit down,” urged Mavis, as Mrs Trivett continued to stand.

“Thank you, miss.  It isn’t often we have such a winsome young lady like you to visit us,” said Mrs Trivett, as she sat forward on her chair with her hands clasped on the side nearest to Mavis, a manner peculiar to country women.

“I can’t get over your husband being a farmer as well as a musician,” remarked Mavis.

Mrs Trivett shook her head sadly.

“It’s a sad pity, miss; because his love of music makes him forget his farm.”

“Indeed!”

“And since you praised his playing in church, he’s spent the best part of the week at the piano.”

“I am sorry.”

“At least, he’s been happy, although the cows did get into the hay and tread it down.”

Mavis expressed regret.

“You’ll stay to tea and supper, miss?”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” laughed Mavis.

“It’s the anniversary of the day on which I first met Trivett, and
I’ve made a moorhen and rabbit-pie to celebrate it,” declared Mrs
Trivett.